


Lay Me Down

by AmRye



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abduction, Afterlife, Aftermath of Violence, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, High School, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Sexual Experimentation, Trauma, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2020-11-26 11:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmRye/pseuds/AmRye
Summary: A serial killer, slowly gaining notoriety, has already claimed the lives of three high school boys. Another has gone missing. A shadow of the third victim still clings to this world, reaching, if he can, to save the fourth victim from the same fate.





	1. Revenant

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Whenever Arthur imagined the Butcher's house, probably far more often than what would be considered healthy, he saw the rusty edges of old blood where the carpet met the wall, he could smell the moist decay of bodies beneath floorboards, and could see the large taxidermy crows peering down from branches that twisted from the walls like long, palsied fingers.

Arthur always did have a vivid imagination.

Some said his morose imagination was part of his charm. Others thought it was something that needed to be cured with intensive therapy. His mother in particular hated hearing his morbid ideas, often blaming his estranged father for fueling his head with stories of tormented, trapped souls, or of mythological hags that held people down in their sleep, or any other account of unnatural things that went bump in the night.

Shifting his attention from his ruminations back to the Butcher's house, he imagined there would be a coffee table littered with the latest issues of _Psychopath Weekly_ and _Insanity Fair_, swollen with scribbled notes like his mother's crochet magazines. The murderer himself might even be standing there, scarlet-spattered and grinning with that maniacal gleam in his eyes.

But no. Right now, the Butcher wasn't there at all.

Arthur paused as his imagination ceased and reality sunk in with the surety and blackened clarity of molasses. His chest still steadily rose and fell despite no longer needing the crisp air around him. He could almost feel his heart throbbing, loud and helpless, as it had in this very spot for one last time. But that was only the memory of a pulse.

His eyes continued to slide slowly across the Butcher's living room.

The first thing he noticed was how treacherously normal everything appeared to be. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in a faded floral pattern, plainly arranged around a modest sized television. The lighting was standard and gaudy knickknacks lined the shelves. There's even an embroidered frame on the wall—pale blue stitches spelling out "Home Sweet Home." As if anyone sweet lived here. The beige carpet was as outdated as the room's furnishings. It was as if he had walked into his grandmother's home.

Arthur's attention was next drawn to the chest that supported the television. One of the doors hung open a crack and a small twinkle from its murky depths emerged. He reached out and swung the door open on its creaky hinges, half expecting to see an assortment of paring knives. Instead, there stood a line of shot glasses. Some looked to be mementos from trips to Mexico, the Bahamas, and even other parts of the States.

"Look at all of you," Arthur cocked a brow as he peered inside. "Lined up like toy soldiers."

He vaguely remembered that the Butcher collected them in his spare time. "Correction," he muttered to himself. "Used to collect."

Arthur snatched one with a hideous depiction of cacti across the surface, the pickle color having faded into a sickly lime green, from age or, perhaps, the Butcher's relentless polishing. He launched it across the room where it shattered. A hot rage was twisting inside, the memory of heat bleeding across what was left of him. He continued without pause. The pounding was now in his head. The state ones were next, followed by the more exotic, aged collection. They each exploded, one by one, against the back of the front door that remained forever bolted, salting the carpet with tiny shards of glass.

Once the cabinet was emptied, Arthur clamped his fingers under the edge of the coffee table and heaved it forward onto its top, sending the magazines flapping across the room and the ashtray thudding to the floor. His throat was cold and motionless despite the violence of his actions—a throat that may have once been raw with screaming and rage, was now silenced. A mammoth dish of alabaster rolled off on its side, ridges beating a rhythm across the thin carpet. It collided with the chest, rocking the standing television precariously before it settled.

Arthur tilted his head; messy hair getting into his eyes. A feverish gaze assessed the room for further damage. A slow grin carved its way across his lips.

"That won't do."

He shoved the chest with his weight, and watched as the television toppled to the edge of the thrown coffee table with a loud crash. The screen cracked loudly, tiny splinters of glass that twinkled like morning dew. The exquisite noise echoed through the small house.

Next—the kitchen.

Eyeing his handiwork with a smug turn of his lips, Arthur made his way over to the next room though the old-fashioned, swing door. He first threw opened the cabinets, dragging out small dishtowels and rags. He collected a nice pile by the time his not-so-gentle search was over, and soon, he was stuffing them into the cracks beneath the door and anywhere else the water would escape. Of course it would seep through, but it would delay the water's escape. After stopping the sink drains, he turned on the water and waited patiently for the sinks to fill, watching with silent delight as it spilled over, cascading to the tiled floor. An hour later, the water created a half moon of wetness out into the living room carpet. Soon there would be a nice little lake for the Butcher to play in.

Overlooking the vandalism, the house was the kind of place anyone could have lived in. Even the killer of three high school boys from New Dover Heights, Massachusetts.

It all started the summer before Arthur's senior year, when Johnny Lenoir hadn't arrived home after getting smashed at a kegger. Instead, he appeared in several Ziploc freezer bags down by the waterway eight days later. Everything went bat-shit crazy after that.

Curfews were reinstated. Buddy-ups were formed for the kids whose houses didn't warrant bus stops. Cameras were installed at local parks for shady-looking scamperers. Arthur had been pretty sure that the Butcher—as the locals began to call him after the second victim—was not a scamperer. Those cameras weren't about catching the serial killer. They were about parents pretending that their children were playing on swing sets instead of holed up in some sweaty basement, grabbing at liquor and falling victim to grabby hands.

Despite an obvious love of everything vintage, band tees, and giving his mother heart palpitations, Arthur hadn't been particularly interested in the Butcher case at the time—not while he was still freshly moved to this town from across the Atlantic. He would have, if pressed, admitted to a certain fascination with sociopaths, and he had spent more than a few 'library enrichment' hours scouring the Encyclopedia of Tragedy and Mayhem, but news about a couple of missing boys didn't catch his attention.

What did intrigue him was the 'disconnectedness-from-guilt' trait that seemed to trail their lot. He'd been accused of the same behavior on more than one occasion. Whether he was guilty of actually having these issues was debatable. Lord only knows the counselors at his school were more than happy to discuss what they termed his 'oppositional defiance' at every chance they could to his mother.

Arthur's thoughts on that had been consistent, clear, and resounding. Two fingered salutes to everyone involved.

The school counselor should have been more interested in the actual sociopaths in the neighborhood, rather than playing amateur psychologist with his school records. Why couldn't they have fixated on the Butcher like he was the new fad diet as everyone else had in New Dover Heights?

Eventually Arthur was, too. But it turned out that someone very close to him had to make the Butcher's cut in order to grab his attention. Very close.

Which brings him back to destroying the homes of serial killers. No matter how exhilarating destruction can be, things have a tendency to become boring after a while. Quite stale, indeed. What made it even worse was that the Butcher never replaced anything he broke, which essentially stripped the fun out of fucking up his shit. No more shot glasses, no ashtrays, and even the television was replaced only by a shitty little clock radio. Arthur could only flip his coffee table over so many times before it became futile.

So, why was he still here? He wanted to know the same thing.

Arthur Kirkland was the third victim.

He vaguely remembered, like silky dark dreams, walking back from a party that he should've never attended. The bitter November air nipped harshly at his skin through his thin black sweatshirt. Arthur wasn't really one for those sorts of so-called parties, but after months of constant coaxing and teasing, he had finally been convinced into actually attending by an acquaintance who shared similar dislikes against the school's social structure. Truthfully, however; Arthur had thought this acquaintance was an idiot who just liked to smoke under the football bleachers and wore stupid things to attract attention.

The party was no more than awkward conversations while drifting about a cluttered, badly lit home that smelled like an alcoholic's paradise: cheap vodka and vomit-stained carpets. He'd left around midnight, obscenely early according to the idiot acquaintance.

Arthur's home wasn't far. It really wasn't.

No one was sober enough to drive him anywhere, though a few had offered. He should have accepted. Better to die being thrown through the windshield than to be tortured for hours beneath the knife of a psychopath.

It shouldn't have ended like that. He wasn't done. He had things to do. People to apologize to. Ways he could have been a little different.

When he was alive, the frozen air gnawed painfully at his lungs. Clouds of hot breath caressed his cheeks. He had pulled the hood tightly over his head in poor effort to trap the warmth. His feet were sore in his old Docs as he walked beneath the yellow light of neighborhood streetlights. His brain felt like it was swimming in his head and thoughts were fuzzy with liquor. And soon after, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose with a nasty feeling.

A cold descended over the presently dead Arthur, the rest was always a bit more difficult to recall in his death-state. It was like trying to grasp onto a glimpses of wispy images, flashes of vivid memory that stung like hot shards of broken glass.

Arthur wasn't sure what he had expected to happen in the afterlife. Wasn't there supposed to be some light at the end of the tunnel? Wasn't he supposed to automatically _go_ somewhere?

Instead, the first thing he remembered in his death-state was waking up in the middle of the woods, huddled in the fetal position with his back against a gnarled, ancient tree that stood proudly above the others. The first thing he noticed was that the pain was gone. But then he also realized that he could, in fact, feel nothing. Whenever the wind picked up, he failed to feel it tug at his clothes. His hands couldn't feel the dry crackling of autumn leaves beneath his fingers or the frozen, compact dirt. The world looked a bit off—slightly unclear and not quite as vivid as it should've been. The colors were weaker—like a canvas of monotones. If he weren't concentrating so hard on it, the world may have been easy to ignore.

Peering down at himself, he appeared to be wearing the same clothes that he had been in hours before his death—the dilapidated, black sweatshirt carelessly worn over a band-tee that a friend had given him. A worn pair of jeans. His old Docs. None of it was mutilated or stained. Almost exactly as if he had just been walking down that cold, dark street.

After picking himself up, he took a few steps forward and came upon another odd insight. The leaves moved as he walked past.

Arthur gave a sideways glance at them as he tried moving through them once more. They wafted softly, as if stirred by nature's sigh. Green eyes widened marginally and he was sure that if he were still alive, his pulse would have risen. He was pretty sure that he wasn't supposed to move things. If that were nature's law, then there probably would be more incidents of the living world being affected by the trapped dead… if that even made any sense.

Right? Right.

Several minutes passed after that. But he soon found that time seemed nonexistent in this new death-state. All the same, he was aware that a substantial amount of it had been spent testing the waters of his new environment. He found that like any good paranormal show will tell you, spirits could pass through things. Although it fucking hurt, in a non-living sense, of course. It wasn't pain, only a sense of intense uneasiness. Arthur could hardly manage the shivering the first time he passed through the tree he had woken next to. He could feel every parched, dying molecule squeeze past whatever was left of him.

He knew that he probably didn't have any substance, but he couldn't get rid of the memory of substance… the memory of breathing… and the memory of a warm pulse and of feeling cold. In essence, he could still feel these things as if he were still living. But they weren't real. Just faded memories of the real thing.

In his honest opinion, it was easier to move things than it was to pass through them. That didn't seem normal… or whatever was considered normal in this in-between stage of life and death.

Wandering further into the woods, he found another peculiarity. He couldn't move past a certain point. He physically froze, as if stopped by an invisible wall… or more accurately, as if strings were pulling him back, rooting him to a specific spot. Apparently he wasn't allowed to go where he pleased. Arthur really was trapped.

Next was to feel the area, to know where he _could_ go. The further he walked back where he didn't feel the invisible strain, he noticed something in the distance. A weighty chill crawled through the teenager when he saw a familiar roof through the trees. The Butcher's shed.

.

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.

Afterlife memories were interrupted the moment Arthur glanced out the Butcher's back window after having damaged his living room. His backyard was a neglected mess, covered in weeds. Brown, crackled leaves skittered across the ground like rats. They piled against the tiny building, rustling as though trying to speak. The sound of metal grating against metal echoed, stiffening Arthur's memory of a body.

Without looking in the smoky window in the back of the shed, he knew what the killer was doing—sharpening his tools, scraping his big thumb over the blades. Knives. Cleavers. Little curved paring instruments with loops on the end. A shiver rippled through him, and he nearly stepped back and considered running. Well, running as far as he could, huddled against that invisible line like some pathetic child who wanted to escape an unending nightmare.

A lot of good that will do. The bastard will just keep on doing it.

Arthur made his way across the lawn, the weeds barely moving against his footfalls before he slipped though the crack in the shed's doorway.

The Butcher was resting against his workbench, relaxed and confident, his work uniform spattered with blood as dry as an artist's long-forgotten clay, and open to his sweaty bare chest. His tattoo was clearly visible, a heart with a rope coiled around it, inscribed with words '_And now for something new_.'

The phrase crept up Arthur's spine like a freshly spawned brood of baby spiders. If the Butcher had been able to see him, it would have appeared that he shimmered in the air like ice crystals in a fog. But he couldn't, of course. The last time he'd seen Arthur was the day he'd killed him.

The Butcher was a tall man and absolutely, positively too normal-looking. Daniel was his real name. And he wore his standard brown hair cropped close to his skull, and he had bland metal-framed glasses that cast only the slightest shadow across the apple of his cheek. He was neither good-looking nor ugly, not too tall nor too short. He was a little doughy around the waist, and his nose had a point. Daniel Shaffer was so average that you'd never even notice him until he was upon you. Arthur hadn't.

He coughed then, a phlegmy rattle that bounced off the walls, interrupting his thoughts once more, just as he'd begun to relive the miserable day he'd abducted him. Arthur hoped the cough was a symptom of something incapacitating, the beginnings of tuberculosis or lung cancer. Ebola. A disease that'd knock the Butcher on his ass.

When he glanced up at him again, a chill blew straight through him. His eyes bored into Arthur's, black with something—lust, he suspected—and the fear coursed through his veins like a fever.

"Uh…" The sound escaped him mouth like air leaking from a tire.

A sinister grin played at the corners of the Butcher's lips, twitching there like an electrocution. The smile was all too familiar to Arthur, and he felt the inevitable panic coming. A train ready to derail.

News at eleven. He wasn't looking at him. How could he be? It's not like he was visible.

Arthur's heart sank, and his carefully cultivated rage disappeared, replaced by something darker. He knew what he was about to see before he turned to look at the old-fashioned school desk bolted into the floor in the corner.

Another boy.

This boy, despite being larger than him and well-defined with lean muscle, looked a bit younger than him when he'd died, maybe sixteen. There was something about him, something that inscribed a certain innocence, someone who had still barely experienced the world. The teenager was tied to the desk with fishing line; the line ringed him, making his entire outfit (and skin) look like wide-wale corduroy. He wore a faded pair of jeans matched with a worn pair of running shoes. A nondescript navy blue tee beneath a letterman jacket. A brief glance at the achievement patches on the sleeve told Arthur that he was into sports. His hair, a dirty gold hung limply across his glistening forehead. Glasses were perched at the bridge of his nose, slightly askew.

"_Shit_… another one."

The alarm was gone in an instant, replaced with cold fury. Arthur began to run numbers. The Butcher never kept anyone longer than a week.

Johnny Lenoir.

Aiden Barry.

Himself.

One week. Every time.

Arthur circled the new teenager, scanning his exposed skin for bruising, for marks. The only thing he could find was a milky crust dried at the corners of the boy's lips like a cold sore—the residue of whatever it was the Butcher drugged his victims with.

This one was new. _Brand-new_. Fresh.

Arthur was sure that was how the Butcher saw him. Just like the others. Over the next week, there'd be no food, only a little water, and zero bathroom breaks. The abrading would start soon—Daniel loved his nutmeg grater. Then the cutting.

_Dammit!_

Arthur paced the room, stabbing the killer with furious glares. If he'd only been able to haunt Shaffer the day before, given him something to tweak out other than his psychotic urges, maybe he could have stopped this one. He was sure he'd managed to derail a few of his abductions simply by providing him with some vandalism to clean up. He certainly wouldn't have found the time to stalk and abduct this poor boy if he'd been busy bailing out his house like a sinking rowboat.

But that didn't matter now. He was on a deadline.

Arthur crouched beside the boy and ran his fingers carefully over the boy's hair, making sure not to displace any and draw the attention of the Butcher's obsessive gaze.

"I'll take care of you," he whispered. "I'm going to get you out of here and away from this sick fuck. Don't worry." The last words were ridiculous, he knew. How could the boy do anything but worry? Even now, as subdued as his victim was, his jaw was clenched, his knuckles white in their death grip on the edges of the old wooden school desk. Tensing up for battle.

"That's good," Arthur murmured into the boy's ear. "You're smart to prepare yourself for the worst."

And then, as he knew the boy couldn't hear him, Arthur mumbled to himself, "Especially if I fuck this up."

He turned and glowered into Daniel's eyes. Madness floated there like stray lashes. The same madness he'd witnessed for one hellish week, still lingered there, fevered and septic.

"And you," he spat, his voice escalating. "I'll have you know that this is the last one you get to bring to this pit, and I guarantee you, you won't get any satisfaction from him!"

Arthur's fingers curled. He wanted to tear into him, dig his eyes out, make him feel every ounce of pain he'd meted out with Johnny, Aiden, and himself. Make him hurt. Make him know that he hadn't won.

He knew it would be a battle. He'd tried to put an end to it all before, to end the Butcher. To kill him. To make him kill himself. Those attempts had been a mixed bag of successes and failures. Arthur had saved the last one—a redheaded boy—Alex, he believed his name was—and the brunet with the braces, and the one who hummed constantly. But the closest Arthur had come to offing the monster himself had been a small fire he'd managed to set outside Daniel Shaffer's bedroom door. The man's smoke detectors had alerted him to the danger almost immediately, leaving Arthur foul-tempered and snarling obscenities.

Arthur glanced over at this new boy and was satisfied that he had a little time left before the real horror started. With the flood in his house, he'd done enough to keep the psycho busy for a while, enough to keep him off his new prey.

It was always a challenge, however. Living people were more difficult to deal with than their spirits.

.

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* * *

A/N: Let me know your thoughts. Thanks!


	2. Memory

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Arthur lingered in the flourishing night long enough to watch the Butcher complete his ritual of padlocking the shed. The man pressed his body up against the door, as if pressing against a lover. He was probably listening—as if any abductee in their right mind would begin maneuvering out of their bindings the second their abductor left the room. Then, with a suspicious glance at his surroundings, he walked back to the main house.

Once inside, he began to scream. The sounds of plates clattered against the walls, shattering, and then splashing. All of it was muffled, but oddly comforting.

He’d found Arthur’s mess.

Arthur wished he could manage a smile, but the weight of his duty to Shaffer’s new victim had messed with his vandalism high. So, he trudged across the yard and into his woods, walking through half-rotting fences and small animals that shivered as he passed through their bodies—far enough that he could no longer hear the killer’s screams. Barely beyond the boundaries of Shaffer’s property was the dying oak that he had first woken up next to. Bark gray and branches bare, ribboned in dense tentacles of ivy.

Arthur stood before it and huffed, ankles deep in spiky ferns with fronds like crooked emerald fingers. He braced himself against the tree, trying to compose himself, trying to shake off the anger and horror he’d picked up in the shed. He needed to calm down before trying anything.

The night grew heavier and the house soon became quiet. The blonde ghostly figure slipped away from the oak and languished closer to the shed.

The moon was full, unfortunately, as it lessened the shadows of Shaffer’s yard. The man was guarded as hell. He seemed to have a sixth sense for anything amiss surrounding his new catch—a fresh teenaged body to play with. Arthur’s nose wrinkled slightly as his mind attempted to shy away from the memories of just _how_ the Butcher liked to play. He remembered how hot and paper dry the killer’s fingers were against his skin. Somehow, they always felt worse than the edge of his cold knife.

The blonde stopped before the padlocked shed, shivering in reminiscence, as if repressing silent screams.

Memory hurt—especially when you were nothing more than an entity who could do surprising little. And yet they were getting more and more difficult to recall. Any scrap of Arthur’s living memory before that sodding party was fast washing away, like murky watercolor left out in the rain. Sometimes he felt like he had to act fast to salvage whatever he could, but always, could never grasp any of those precious, wisps of memory before they forever slipped away.

His hand was hesitant before plunging into the shed before the rest of him followed, every shred of his being remembering, tortured with the retention of his deathplace. It was always hard to re-enter a place like this.

Once inside, Arthur’s gaze pierced through the darkness. Moonlight had been cut off, as there were no longer any windows aside from the tiny, smoky one higher up to offer an interruption in the shadow. There was one once. It was small, barely enough to allow a thin body, perhaps. It had been recently boarded up by the Butcher. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Any weakness of his structure had been dealt with.

The longer Arthur’s gaze remained on the window, the more he felt the memory of pain grating at his sides—his hips—as if trying desperately to push himself through that small opening. His breath felt short and he shuddered.

Was that a real memory or just his imagination? The mirage of feeling dissipated a moment later and Arthur’s attention was drawn to the school desk with the bound teenager.

Drawing to his side, Arthur touched him, running his fingers down the heated side of the victim’s face, alongside the crevice of his neck, and caressing down the boy’s sides. The warmth of the boy’s skin sent tender shivers down Arthur’s spine. He couldn’t help it. He missed living warmth—the draw was strong, like a fly to honey. Being trapped on the murderer’s property meant that he couldn’t reach out to touch warm flesh whenever he pleased.

He felt the boy tremble and groan in his drugged state. Feeling just a tad bit guilty for causing the chill, Arthur retreated just enough to get another good look at him.

“Sorry…” he muttered, knowing he could no longer be heard.

Another shudder seemed to go through the boy and his lids slowly opened, revealing blue eyes for the first time, still exceptionally glazed from the drug. Arthur was surprised that he was even this coherent. Most of the Butcher’s victims were completely unconscious the first day.

Those eyes hardened and they seemed to be staring straight at him. Arthur connected with them, wishing that they _were_ staring at him. Deep regret that he rarely allowed himself to feel bled through him like a stain—a dark reminder that he never would again be heard, seen, or felt.

“Who’s there?”

Arthur froze.

The bound teenager’s lip cracked and his voice sounded so rough that it pained Arthur’s memory of a parched throat.

None of the others had ever asked that after the Butcher’s obvious departure. Arthur allowed his stiffness to ease after a strained silence, realizing that this boy was probably just delusional. Really, as much of that disgusting substance that the Butcher had given him, he really shouldn’t have been able to comprehend anything at all. Mumbling at best. That’s what the others usually did.

“Please…” the boy tried again, his throat sounded knotted with barely contained, raw emotion, though his words were still heavily pronounced, as if he were speaking past a wad of cotton wrapped around his tongue.

“I heard you,” his whisper escalated to a near shout, wild desperation wringing through. “I _heard you.”_

Thick waves of shock pounding through him, Arthur jumped forward like a startled animal, applying pressure over the teenager’s mouth to silence him. He tilted his head back, listening intently for any movement from the house. Seconds trickled by and the only sound was the wind stirring dead leaves, scuttling against the wood of the shed.

Satisfied, Arthur leaned forward with pressure still tight against the boy’s mouth, with the boy’s eyes widened almost comically into the empty darkness.

“Idiot,” he breathed against the boy’s ear, knowing that the teenager had either felt or heard him, or both, as goosebumps were instantly rising along his skin in response. “I don’t think that I need to remind you that you’re in the fucking shed of a psychopath. So, do us both a favor and _refrain from_ _drawing his attention_.”

He released the teenager’s mouth, almost too harshly in his anxiety. It only took a small second later to feel the weight of guilt for letting his temper leak through. Shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his sweatshirt Arthur mumbled his apology for the second time.

The bound teenager didn’t speak for a moment, the shudder still evident as his fingers tightened at different increments over the edge of the desk. He licked his chapped lips. His face looked as if it were drained of all blood.

“You—w-what—I m-mean who are you?” That seemed to take a bit of effort.

Arthur paused, not really sure how to start this. How the hell do you gently tell someone that you’re dead? A lonely little ghostly specter out to help you from the clutches of a knife-happy psycho. He blew air slowly through his proverbial lungs, pretending for a moment that he could feel the rush of the evening chill. The motion helped him think.

“Arthur… I’m Arthur,” he finally said. “Can you… really hear me?” He at least wanted to classify this madness before plunging into it.

“Y-yeah… clear as day… A-Arthur,” the teen whispered.

The dead seventeen-year-old felt a certain heaviness pass through him, weighing whatever traces of Arthur Kirkland remained in this world. It was an odd feeling—a dangerous cocktail of sensations: dark confusion, a deep ache, and a heart wrenching tentativeness against hope. He hated false hope above all else. And this boy was unknowingly flaunting it in his face.

When he didn’t respond for a long stretch of time, the bound teenager squirmed in the bolted desk, forcing it to creak against the worn floorboards. “…Arthur?” He sounded panicked. Alarmed blue eyes darted around the empty corners of the shed.

“Still here,” Arthur responded.

“Well, I-I can’t tell,” the teenager almost sounded like he was sulking, but he seemed to calm considerably, the previous shaking slowly receding.

“Are you a—ghost?” His voice broke in the middle of his question and a nervous sweat surfaced over his brow.

Arthur paused, not really sure how to answer that one. The term made him feel uncomfortable. He wrapped his arms tightly over his chest, as if proving that he had substance. “I… well… something like that, I suppose.”

“Did you die here?” His voice grew less scratchy the more he talked.

“Yes,” Arthur had to force the word out. Somehow it felt more real to vocalize it than it was to experience it. _Someone knew_. Someone knew that an Arthur had died here. Although, hopefully this one wouldn’t be joining him soon. This was weird. Having an actual conversation after being silent for God knows how long.

Before the teenager could continue his flurry of questions, Arthur blurted out his own: “What’s your name?”

“Alfred. Alfred Jones.” He almost sounded almost resilient for a second, despite the tremor in his voice. Arthur stared at him.

The name sounded faintly familiar. Hell, something about him seemed familiar, achingly so. Perhaps it was the tone that he used. Or even the way that he introduced himself that stirred a deep, resounding chord. His heart ached even more, as if attempting to tell his mind something.

Arthur’s brows furrowed. It was useless trying to remember. The only concrete things he could recall were the basics: his name, his school, what street he lived on, etc. Any details prior to the night of his abduction were a blur. Perhaps this Alfred was somehow a piece of that.

“Alfred,” Arthur said, getting his attention. “New Dover Heights High. Does that sound familiar?”

Alfred was silent for a moment, even his slight struggling had stilled. “Yeah. I go there.”

Okay. So, another student. From the same school as himself and the others. Serial killers had their patterns. Shaffer seemed fixated on that school.

“You sound familiar,” Arthur tried his luck at probing Alfred’s mind.

Alfred grinned a little. “Everyone knows me. I’m the quarterback of Dover Heights High School’s football team.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t even try to hide the disappointment in his tone. That probably would explain why the name at least sounded familiar—it had probably been floating around the school every Friday night. Nothing that could really help him get his memory back.

“So, how are we getting out of here, Art?” Alfred asked, staring at the worn boards that made the ceiling of the shed.

“_You’re_ getting out of here. And I’m not sure yet… I’ll think of something.” Arthur found himself sitting on the floor next to the desk, hugging his legs to his chest. His chin rested on his knee, staring at the boarded up window.

“But you’re coming too,” his voice radiated, sounding almost soft and solemn for a brief moment, so resolute, as if he were the deciding factor in whether or not he wanted a ghost following him around.

“I’m dead, moron. I can’t leave.” Arthur spat his words, yet his voice faltered in its sudden harshness.

Gone was the peculiar softness, instantly replaced by Alfred’s unruly tone. “But why not? You can float behind me all you want!”

“I-I don’t float! And… I don’t know why I can’t leave. I just can’t… There’s a certain point in this bloody property where I can’t pass through. I just don’t know… _I don’t know why_.” Arthur’s voice was shaking and he curled into himself even tighter, the pale fringe falling over his eyes as he ducked into his knees. The bend of his posture might have looked unnatural if he were visible.

Alfred fell silent.

Arthur felt himself fade from the world for a moment and he fought to stay present, but it was useless. The pull was irresistible, the brief sensation of falling encompassing him as darkness closed in. He barely heard Alfred calling his name once more, but he was already too far gone to answer. The world slipped from his grasp, the sights and sensations of the living gliding like silk between his dead fingers, and the blurred lines of the shed melted into nothing.

.

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	3. Pidgeon

_-Three months prior-_

_._

_._

_._

Arthur never was one to wake up on time in the mornings. The alarm clock was useless, and his mother practically had to drag him to do anything that required actual effort. For all intents and purposes, he had the appearance of some washed out stoner in the mornings. Mrs. Kirkland had to assure herself with the guiltless scent of Arthur’s clothes and a meticulous search through the corners of his chest drawers to prove that he wasn’t hiding anything illegal.

He knew what she was doing whenever she could to tread softly around the fact that she went through his things. So much for trust.

Just because he didn’t want to wake up like some hyped-up rabbit on steroids didn’t mean that he was ingesting whatever mind-altering shit he could get his hands on. People were stupid sometimes. Stupid and paranoid with their little, nicely packaged stereotypes of how the world worked.

Arthur pulled on his ever-faithful worn black sweatshirt over a clean t-shirt he found in the hamper, dragging the hood over his head in a vague attempt to keep his messy hair dry from the pelting rain once outside. He also had to wait for the unreliable drive to school from his mother who worked long and unpredictable hours at the Dover Heights Hospital. He pulled a scone from the sealed container on the kitchen table, biting into the parched lump, allowing his teeth to hold onto it while he slipped his too flat book bag across his chest—too flat for all the homework that his teachers had given him. Despite being above-average-intelligent, a label given to him by the student counselor, he rarely had enough incentive to actually finish some of the assignments.

The morning was dull, the car ride was dull, and the monotony of his mother’s lecture on the importance of punctuality at the moment was fucking dull. The same as ever.

Unenthusiastic green eyes watched the rain sliding down the passenger seat window. He could barely see his reflection in the dirty glass—for that he was glad. Arthur never liked looking at himself. It was the vacant expression staring back that he hated the most. He didn’t feel vacant. Sure, he wasn’t bleed sunshine all over the school or smile as often as he used to years ago, but he also didn’t need to have school counselors watching his every move like he was about to come to school with a weapon in the back of his trousers.

Explicitly cheerful people were annoying in either case, Arthur had decided. No one liked people who flaunted their rose-tinted lives in other’s faces. They were the kind of people who got beat up in locker rooms.

Arthur sighed, pushing the jostling thoughts away, unbuckling his seatbelt as the car pulled up the student drop-off in front of the school.

“Have a good day. I love you, darling,” was his mother’s farewell to him every morning. It always used to embarrass him, as her voice was the kind that carried on a seemingly impossible length past the car window. He never would have imagined that he’d ever come to eventually miss it. Never imagined that he would give the rest of his lingering soul over just to hear her words of love, or even just to see her smile at him once more.

The dreary weather continued throughout the rest of the day.

Arthur was at his locker when an annoyance stopped by. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. The boy that hid a vicious side that no one would’ve liked behind his mask of cheery idiocy. He got into more fights than the school admin cared to recognize and was quite the grabby little bastard when it came to taking what he wanted, always picking his way through lockers, teacher’s desks, and closed doors with little difficulty. Apparently, he always had his way with people as well. If Carriedo saw something he wanted, then he was determined as hell.

It’s a wonder that he wasn’t expelled. And it’s even more of a wonder that he wasn’t in the principal’s office more often. It made Arthur’s blood simmer, knowing that they were focusing on him more than Antonio, attempting to stick the label of an antisocial delinquent over the loner instead of focusing on the real douchebags of the school. Carriedo even looked the part. His clothes were carefully disordered and barely appropriate, without technically violating any dress codes; his tongue and eyebrow were pierced as well as nearly every sliver of cartilage along his ear. His artificially darkened hair dropped over is eyes in a way that girls apparently found attractive.

And said devastatingly stupid boy was leaning against his locker. Arthur thought he was trying too hard. Way too hard. Like a preening peacock who was barely aware of his surroundings.

“What do you want?” Arthur said. His tone was flat as he raided his books for the next class.

“Where are you headed?” Antonio smiled; his voice sounded a little raw this morning. Anyone could smell that he was a smoker. Arthur wouldn’t have claimed to have never indulged every once in a while, but Antonio was like a damned chimney.

He didn’t answer immediately. Rummaging through his locker as the cascade of the busy morning surrounded them, students gossiping, girls applying makeup, and jocks showing off their new letterman jackets patches to their brown-nosing friends.

“Why are you interested in my schedule?” Arthur gave him a lazy glance before pushing his locker shut.

“Relax, Kirkland. I left my murder weapon at home.” Antonio grinned, stepping closer as if they were the best of friends.

Arthur’s frown deepened. Antonio had been taking an odd interest in him for the past month now. Apparently, the bumpkin was bored. There was nothing worse for Carriedo than being bored—trouble usually followed. Arthur wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t a fleeting fancy that could be screwed over—like everything else Antonio chased after.

“I want to know if you’ll come to a little party this weekend. Lots of booze.” Antonio cocked his eyebrow and grinned.

Arthur only stared at him for a moment. “You’ve been asking me to come to one of your stupid parties for the past month.”

“Yeah? You won’t regret it.” He rubbed the edge of his tongue piercing against the back of his teeth. It looked like he was chewing the side of his cheek.

“And what has my answer always been?” Arthur’s tone was flat and clear—as if speaking to a simple six-year-old.

“No?”

“Correct.” Arthur grabbed Antonio’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing his face down to his level. Despite the height difference, Arthur had no doubt that he could give this bastard a thorough beating. And oh God, did he want to. His mouth curved a little with the imagined scenario as he stared at Antonio.

“So why do you keep bothering me?”

Antonio looked a bit cautious at first, but that same maddeningly cheery smile returned as he lifted his face away from Arthur’s grasp. “I think you’ll have fun.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “And why would I enjoy spending any time with you?”

Antonio’s face stiffened. “Because we’re the same,” he looked nothing but honest as he spoke, and yet there was a creeping shade of mischief in his eyes. “We both _like_ the same thing.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur raised his voice slightly, wanting to raise his fist instead against Antonio for publicizing private details about his life. Even if the entire school already seemed to know. If it weren’t for the staff members patrolling the hallways filed with gaggles of students making the most of their passing time, he would’ve seriously considered it.

“We may like the same thing, as you put it. But we’re _not_ the same,” he growled quietly.

Before Antonio could open his mouth to respond, they both flinched when a large body was pushed hard into the lockers, inches away from Arthur. Their attention diverted to a little scene that had been playing out behind them, both of them previously too distracted to notice. The school corridors were also always so bloody loud.

“Say that again, you cocksucking bastard!”

The guy who had shoved the other guy was practically snarling; he was tall and quite muscular for a high schooler. Arthur also recognized him as one of the big shots on the school’s football team, though he couldn’t remember his name. All the school athletes were wearing their jerseys before the big game. Their school idolized its football team—all of them with their pristine smiles and showcased lives.

Students were quickly gathering around the scene, cell phones out to take pictures and record videos. Some of it would indefinitely be plastered all over social media and YouTube before the hour was over.

The other jock was one that Arthur vaguely recalled as the quarterback of the team, a currently disgruntled Alfred Jones. Arthur wanted to smash his tired face into his textbook for actually remembering that. Even knowing this guy’s name was undeserved praise in his opinion.

Despite just being roughly shoved into the metal lockers, Alfred grinned at the other, a laughing and oddly sinister gesture.

“Oh? Want me to announce to the entire school what you told me last night? Because I sure as hell will if you want me to!” He chuckled, pushing himself away from the lockers, rolling his broad shoulders.

Like the others surrounding the bull-headed jocks, Arthur’s eyes wandered between the two, feeling the brittle tension between them with every nerve, before his gaze shamelessly slipped down Alfred’s jean-clad backside. Most of these dense musclemen were never aware of the fact that the ‘bad-tempered school delinquent’ fancied the view on occasion.

“Go ahead,” the other boy smirked. “Let the whole school know where you like to stick your cock.”

Everyone grew silent. Arthur felt Antonio brush against him; withdrawing and blending into the crowd.

Arthur’s fists clenched and his insides froze. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He wasn’t thinking at all when he stepped forward and sneered a response. “What about you, useless linebacker—or whatever the hell you are. You certainly look like you have a wet twat between your legs.”

The silence was stifling when the football player turned his gaze over toward Arthur. A vein was visible at the side of his temple and it looked as if blood were being pumped into his face. “—the fuck are you?!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. He had only been going to this small school the same number of years as the others. Even though he couldn’t place a name, at least he recognized him.

“And I’m the receiver, idiot,” the teenager spat as his stance shifted ever so slightly, now entirely focused on this scrawny new intrusion.

Arthur laughed—his first real laugh in a long time. “Oh, I’m sure you are.”

The other’s fists clenched, and he looked ready to move forward. Arthur flinched back, bracing himself to avoid the football player. Before he reached his target, Alfred shot forward from the sideline, pushing the receiver back. The crowd erupted, becoming obscenely rowdy and Arthur’s palms felt slick with sweat when he realized just how close he came to a beating.

_Where were the teachers?!_

Before the other boy could shake off the sudden shove, Alfred moved, his fist harshly contacting the receiver’s face before bright red streamed fast down his nose. A few close by, Arthur included, were flecked with blood down the front of their shirts when his fist came hard and fast a second time.

The crowd hooted, some laughed, and others were wide-eyed when the teachers finally descended upon them, peeling the two boys apart. The principal, Mr. Germania, a severe looking man that few ever dared to mess with, came in next and his gaze zoned in on Arthur as per usual whenever he was within vicinity of trouble in the school.

Arthur sighed, knowing the exact routine that would follow. So, today was one of those days. Figures.

“Kirkland,” he spoke, the clear ring of authority and disdain painting his tone. “My office. Now.”

“He didn’t do nothing,” Alfred protested, trying not to twist away from the male admin with a firm grasp over his arm.

“Not another word from you, Jones,” Mr. Germania warned as he passed down the hall. The other staff shooed the crowd away to get back to their first period while Alfred and the jock with the red nose were led back to administration. Arthur followed close after, shoving his hands deep within his pockets, glaring down at the accusing blood spatters across his t-shirt, exposed beneath the unzipped hoody.

The receiver was taken to the nurse while Alfred and Arthur followed Germania into his office. They were ordered to sit in the seats across from his desk, which they both were compliant to. The principal rubbed his temple tenderly, and a slow exhale followed.

“Sir, there’s a situation…” his secretary caught him before he closed his door.

“Can’t this wait?” He sounded frustrated.

Her expression told him that it couldn’t. Mr. Germania frowned at the two of them as if they were criminals about to be set out on parole instead of a couple of students who had gotten into a scuffle by the lockers.

“If either of you try to leave this office while I’m gone, your punishment will be much more severe than it already is.”

Arthur was extremely familiar with the arrays of tones that Germania took. This one was a clear ‘fuck with me and you’ll regret it’ tone. It was generally not a good idea to do something stupid after he used it.

“Yes, sir,” Alfred mumbled, slouching and fidgeting in his seat. Arthur said nothing.

The moment the door clicked shut; Arthur noticed Alfred’s eyes slide over in his direction. He focused on the desk and how many times he had seen it from this exact spot. These past couple of months, it felt as if Germania were out to get him. Arthur wasn’t perfect, but half the shit he did didn’t warrant the same monotonous pattern of punishment. It’s like the man was trying to break a horse or something.

Arthur released a harsh, breathy sound of frustration as he leaned back in his seat, uncaring at this point if the bloke next to him was still staring—probably wondering what kind of psycho he was stuck with for God knows how long.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Alfred muttered.

Arthur tilted his head, connecting eyes with the jock. Alfred’s previously closed off expression melted into an odd grin. He looked amused. Arthur only offered a mildly confused rising of his brow. Alfred shouldn’t be the one apologizing.

“It’s a damn shame about that shirt. It looks good on you,” Alfred continued. The amusement in his eyes became mischievous as they skimmed down just a bit. For the first time in what felt like ages, Arthur was fighting a sudden flush rising in his face.

Perhaps the other boy currently licking his wounded ego in the nurse’s office was actually onto something back in the corridors instead of tossing around random insults.

Arthur tried to ignore him for as long as possible, but he could see that Alfred was still staring from the corner of his eyes. His fingers curled into his palms.

“What are you staring at?” Arthur muttered.

Alfred shrugged. There was a certain gleam to his eyes that Arthur didn’t care for, matched with a cocky grin that he liked even less. Idiotic, conceited jocks. All the same.

He looked away, staring at the principal’s desk just as Alfred started speaking again. “Just thought we might as well talk or something. Seems like Germania might be taking his sweet time getting back here.”

Alfred stood and turned his chair so that he could face Arthur comfortably, resting his arms in front of him so that he could stare at him without any effort. Arthur only grew more irked.

“You were pretty quick back there… gotta give you that,” Alfred spoke, almost conversationally. Arthur didn’t respond. He was eyeing some of the now familiar artifacts from the principal’s office, which included quite a few pictures of various animals that he probably owned. One of the more peculiar collections was a smattering of photos that showcased birds, various kinds that looked like the man had taken himself. Germania had once made an off-hand comment about birdwatching. Arthur thought it was weird.

Alfred noticed these briefly as well. And unfazed by the lack of a response from Arthur, Alfred continued.

“Looks like this dude has weird hobbies… You know, I used to try to catch park animals when I was little. Anything from a squirrel to pigeons. Sometimes I’d bring bread whenever we’d go to the park… just so that I’d get to bring one home with me. My folks wouldn’t let us get a dog, so for some reason, I thought they wouldn’t mind something I’d bagged from the park,” he chuckled. “Pretty dumb, huh? Well anyway, I never could catch one. The pidges always took what they wanted and split. Always such quick, scrawny little bastards…” Alfred rambled, leaning his chin up against his arms on the back of his seat, staring casually at Arthur, clearly enjoying attempting to get some sort of reaction.

Arthur leaned his head back into his seat, releasing a soft, annoyed groan. This guy liked to talk.

“—Always just out of reach,” Alfred teased, lightly poking Arthur’s side. Arthur’s expression tightened, now convinced that Alfred was trying to annoy him for his own amusement. He moved his seat away from the intruding hand.

“What should I call you, then, Pigeon? Aside from Kirkland, of course. That’s what Germania called you. I’ve never seen you around here before. You new?” Alfred asked his list of questions straight off, that ever-present smile trying to garner Arthur’s attention.

Arthur snorted at the last question. Despite his resolve to remain silent, he couldn’t stifle the ripple of exasperation that went through his body at the nickname. “Don’t call me that. I have a name.”

“Well? Then, what is it?” Alfred seemed endlessly entertained with the way that the other blonde was regarding him.

Arthur turned a bit, pointedly staring off into the far corner of the room.

“Pidge it is, then,” Alfred said, shrugging, seemingly amused. Arthur briefly wondered if that coincided with some odd American slang. He just hoped that it wasn’t secretly some kind of insult.

Arthur looked up the clock. “Is it really that hard for you to be quiet?”

Alfred chuckled, settling in for the challenge presented to him. “My name’s Alfred. Jones if you want to look me up later.”

“I know who you are.”

“You do, huh?” Alfred raised his eyebrow, that cocky smile from before tugging at his lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s hard not to notice when forty drunks were chanting your name.” …Namely at some whacked out party that the entire school was at last weekend, all crammed into one of the athlete’s large homes. And no, not one of Antonio’s… That bastard and his parties could rot in the seven circles of hell for all Arthur cared. Not even the promise of alcohol could lure him into the bumpkin’s shitty dump.

At this one, however; Arthur had gone for the free booze and was going to hightail out as soon as he was nicely plastered. It was hard to not notice the jocks having their own little drinking game in the foyer. Apparently, Alfred was their favorite guinea pig for testing how much alcohol a human being can consume before blacking out.

Alfred looked vaguely confused before slow realization seemed to trickle over him.

“Hey, you were there? That was some shit-crazy party last weekend.” His grin relaxed just a bit as his brow crinkled slightly, probably trying to pull at nonexistent memory. “God—can’t believe you were there! I’m sure I would’ve noticed you.”

Arthur snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I get that a lot.” Alfred sat up a bit straighter, his smile widening. Arthur rolled his eyes again and Alfred chuckled. “Do you have a twitch?”

“A what?”

“A twitch. Your eyes keep wiggling around.” Alfred laughed again when Arthur turned to fully glare at him.

“I like your eyes, though,” he continued to speak; not missing a beat, leaning just a tad bit closer. “What color are they? Green?”

Arthur turned away from him with a furrowed brow and a face currently bathed in a fever, trying to rebuild that silent wall between them. Apparently, Alfred liked attempting to chip at that wall. He didn’t like Alfred being so close. He didn’t want to be like the scores of others in this fucking school that blushed in the idiot’s presence.

“Just stop,” Arthur said, his voice hopefully betraying nothing, as unaffected as he wished he could be.

Alfred only responded by moving his chair closer so that only inches separated their chairs. Arthur released a tense breath. Unbelievable.

Alfred leaned forward and Arthur could feel faint traces of breath against his ear as he spoke, confident and low. “You just told me no.” His lips curved. “I’m never gonna stop now.”

Arthur tried not to shiver. He tried not to—_God_, he was going to end up killing this smug little bastard if Germania didn’t hurry back.

“I’m not your type,” Arthur’s voice remained flat. His fingers tightened into his palms, still inside the sweatshirt pockets.

Alfred feigned offence. “I’m everybody’s type!”

Arthur couldn’t stop the small laugh from leaving his throat at that response. A whisper of a smile.

“Ah! A smile!” Alfred declared with a wide one of his own, accomplishment shining through. “See, I’m not such a rotten bastard after all,” he winked.

Arthur relaxed into his chair a bit more, trying to ease his tense muscles. “I never said that,” his voice was quiet, but Alfred caught it. Arthur’s faint smile lingered a moment longer before slowly disappearing.

“Man, don’t you just get tired of people’s expectations?” Alfred said, leaning once more against the back of the chair. “I have to be a certain way because I’m me. Same kinda goes for you, I guess. Why can’t we just be free to do whatever the fuck we want? If something looks good to me, then hell yeah, I’m gonna go for it.”

“If only the world were as simple as you, Alfred,” Arthur gave him a wry glance.

Alfred paused, unsure if he should take that as a compliment or an insult. In the end, he decided that it wasn’t important, because he got Arthur to talk to him.

“Well, it shouldn’t matter.” Alfred’s head tilted a bit over his knuckles, still staring at the other blonde. A long pause, thoughtful pause before… “Helps if you have a nice ass.” He grinned.

This time, Arthur couldn’t help the heat that raided his face, the reaction betraying him. Embarrassed, Arthur resorted to the age-old comeback of, “Fuck you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Alfred’s grin grew. “I’d like to see you try.”

Just then, he noticed Germania re-enter the administration center through the measure of glass on the door. Alfred leaned forward once more, his breath ghosting along Arthur’s ear as he spoke, “It was nice meeting you, Pidge.”

The door opened and Alfred was back in his seat with an expression innocent and clueless enough to fool anyone.

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	4. Everyone's Type

-_Present_-

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Arthur had carpet burn at the nape of his neck, on the backs of his thighs, and across desperate, sweating palms. The room was dark. Long shadows are cast across the ceiling from the yellow streetlamp light peeking in along the edges of the drapery. There’s heavy breathing over him, but Arthur can’t see who it is. It’s raspy and labored.

He struggled to get up and it’s only when his backside moves against the carpet that he realizes he’s wearing nothing from the waist down. The carpet chafes against his thighs and there’s an incredible burn there that forces a choked gasp from him. A gasp turned into a strangled grunt as Arthur tries to roll over onto his knees. The world is spinning and his head feels both numb and overloaded with sensation.

He hears a gentle shushing sound from above. The contours of a shadowed face is pushed into the crook of Arthur’s clammy neck, the tip of a nose pressing hard against his throat. Arthur raises his head to alleviate the pressure, but it’s no use. The man nuzzles into the heat of his neck, the rough five o clock shadow along his jaw can be felt at the base of his throat. Even through the fog of confusion, thick around his mind, Arthur quivers with disgust and it’s only then when another bout of dizziness overtakes him that he knows he’s been drugged. Bile rises in his throat as his struggle renews with vigor, but his limbs feel like they’re attached to weights.

And it was with this struggle that Arthur realizes that his hands have been duct taped together. He tries to shout, but it only comes out as a raspy protest. He feels a calloused hand run up his thigh before fingers dig into his hip. He tries to lift his leg for anchor, but the man pins him down.

“And _now_,“ the man rasps, the rawness of his voice dripping with something heavy and dark. “—for something new.”

Arthur’s hair is pulled hard and he feels the man’s teeth trace up the side of his throat. He tries to make a loud noise and wetness trickles from the corners of his eyes. He digs his heel into the carpet and realizes that his captor left his docs on, though the laces are undone and dangling.

“Going—Going to kill—You,” Arthur’s voice shakes as the slurred words are formed, the promise in them branded in his barely coherent mind. The Butcher laughs as he raises his bound hands up and around the back of his neck so that it looks like Arthur is clinging to him, mocking an intimate gesture.

“Embrace me,” he whispered. The shiver of metal caresses down Arthur’s spine. The Butcher leans forward and there is only pain and darkness.

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Arthur can’t sleep in his deathstate.

But there are moments where he feels like he does—long stretches of time where everything becomes a blur and he isn’t exactly in the corporeal world. Images distort and escape him. He thinks they’re memories, but they never last long enough to leave a true impression.

With every hour that trickles by, Arthur knows that he’s slowly losing everything connected to his identity. The only person he can remember is the idiot who invited him to that party where he was last seen alive. Not exactly the person that he wants his last memory to be of.

Antonio was a dick.

When Arthur comes to, he finds himself in the exact same position that he was in the night before, scrunched up in the corner of the shack as if he were trying to shrink into the floorboards. Hell, he could if he really wanted to.

Early morning light streamed in between the cracks along the boarded-up window and beneath the padlocked door. Next to him, he hears a light snore from Alfred. It’s a wonder that the guy could find any sleep at all, tied like a piece of meat and left on an extremely uncomfortable desk. Arthur remembered what it felt like—that desperation in being truly alone, the pain in his muscles from the cramped position, the ache as his shoulder blades pressed against the cold desk and the constant, desperate anticipation for his last breath.

He can’t feel the temperature of the shack, but he sees the clouds of breath escaping Alfred’s cracked, parted lips. Pressing a hand to the side of Alfred’s head, he’s alarmed that he doesn’t gather as much heat as he could before. He stared at the sleeping face, still feeling that nagging familiarity as he attempted to wipe away the white crusted residue at Alfred’s lip. He’s only partially successful.

Arthur’s ability to move things comes in spurts and it’s sometimes weak, which explains why there weren’t more attempts at the Butcher’s life or at destroying his home. He could only do whatever his presence was strong enough to do… and that was becoming less as time wore on. Arthur didn’t want to dwell on what that meant.

Furthermore, he couldn’t explain the strange sensation he got whenever he looked at Alfred, as if he desperately should be uncovering important memories. Specifically, memories that were connected to the face of the boy that he wanted to save. There was a still and tense sensation that filled him the longer he tried, similar to how emotion would tighten his throat when he was alive. It felt like grief and affection—whatever seemed to define his lost memories.

Quiet groans escaped from Alfred’s crusted lips.

“S-Sorry… Sorry… Arthur,” he seemed to exhale his words, either partially awake and delusional or speaking in his sleep.

Arthur couldn’t help but to stare, transfixed as the words were repeated like a broken record. His attention was perked by the fact that his name was also thrown into the mix of half coherent words. Though he wasn’t sure why. Why would Alfred apologize to him?

Alfred jerked awake in the desk, the bolted legs of the desk groaning with the harsh movement. He sucked in a breath; quiet wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes as they opened. It was as if the heavy reminder of his situation or something else entirely seemed to collect at the forefront of his waking mind. His chest shook with silent sobs, only heard through the brief sound of agony as it escaped from the back of his throat. Arthur froze, wanting to avert his eyes from such a private display of emotion, but also found it difficult to do so. The emotion was raw and vibrant, alive, amidst the washed-out grey of his world.

Arthur could almost tangibly see Alfred’s entire countenance change with the dawn of terrible memory of where he was, suddenly becoming quiet, bleary eyes darted around the shed, feverishly looking for something. The drug must’ve worn off completely.

“Arthur?” his voice cracked, probably both from the cold and lack of water.

Arthur waited, a heaviness tightening somewhere deep inside before he was able to form words.

“I’m here.” It came out like the whisper of brittle autumn leaves.

“You’re… You’re really dead, aren’t you?” his voice broke over the word ‘dead’ before biting his lip hard, eyes closing briefly.

“I suppose… I mean, I don’t remember much at all about myself or what happened to me,” Arthur admitted with an awkward shrug of the shoulders. “Maybe it’s for the best. Sometimes memories come in flashes, like when the Butcher was… well…” he stopped for a moment to keep the violent shiver from returning. “I just… I don’t want to be trapped here, but I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

Alfred remained silent, though his eyes widened, staring blankly at the support beams of the shed.

“Arthur… do you know who I am? Do you remember me?” Alfred asked, he almost sounded earnest. Earnest and heartbroken.

Arthur stared at him for a long moment. Although his mind wasn’t offering him anything, his heart continued with that ache.

His heart remembered something, but he couldn’t.

“Am I supposed to?” Arthur worded that as gently as he could. “I feel like, perhaps, I should. Again… memory is difficult for me. Anything before I got here is all but gone.”

Alfred took a slow breath, although the bright blue of his eyes reflected solemn contemplation. His fingers gripped at the desk in an almost stubborn show of defiance. “Arthur… if you’re not coming with me, then I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave you here.”

“What?!” Arthur was immediately irritated, and the aching in his chest grew. “Why the hell would you say that? That’s completely absurd! I’m already dead. _You’re_ not.”

More tears leaked from the corners of Alfred’s eyes, sliding down to his ears with the way he was laying on the desk. His teeth were gritting hard as he spoke. “Don’t fucking say that, Arthur. I can save you from being stuck here, okay? I’ve already failed… in so many ways. Did you know I’ve been looking for you for the past twelve days? At least give me this. Let me bring you home.”

Arthur paused in the air, the shimmer in the weak morning light as he drew closer to Alfred. “I don’t… remember. I don’t remember what home looks like.”

Alfred made a slight choking sound, looking as if he were attempting to swallow his emotions. The tear stains were still there, unable to be wiped away. Arthur reached over to do it for him, earning only a slight flinch from Alfred in return.

“You’re cold,” Alfred muttered, sounding far more miserable than before.

“Listen—” Arthur spoke again, his tone soft. “I’ll go with you, alright? I’ll try to, at least. Whatever it takes to get you out of here. Just pull yourself together, and we’ll figure something out.”

Alfred looked in the direction of Arthur’s voice, the smallest hint of a bitter smile with that, but he did seem to accept his answer. “Deal.”

“You’ve really been looking for me?” Arthur inquired, shifting his attention to the restrains keeping Alfred on the desk, inspecting them.

Alfred’s expression stiffened and he stared hard at the ceiling once more. “A lot of good it did you. Let’s not talk about that… it won’t matter anyway if you can’t remember anything in the first place. Let’s just focus on getting out of here.”

Arthur sighed, and finding that he agreed with Alfred on this. His living memories could wait for now. “Fine.”

“I do have one idea, but you’re not going to like it,” Arthur muttered after a long moment.

“And how am I not going to like it?”

“It involves you needing to suffer the evening with Shaffer… He always comes in the second night after he gets back from work. It’ll give me an opportunity to take something of his. We need to cut your bindings… The problem is that the Butcher is obsessed with his tools. He’ll notice if something goes missing.”

Alfred hummed in thought, shifting to struggle a little with the wire, which already seemed to be cutting into his skin with the tightness. “Arthur… have you done this before? Helped kids escape? It’s just… there were three other kids who went missing after you… but they turned up days after, really drugged out of their minds. None of the information they gave the police led them here, apparently. I mean, obviously… He’s still fucking here.”

Arthur bit at his lip. “I’ve been lucky that the Butcher made mistakes since then… That’s all. Sometimes I feel like I’ve only delayed the inevitable. He’s gotten worse the longer he’s been unable to get his fix. I’m worried that he’s going to be particularly obsessive over you as a result.”

“Am I the first one that can hear you?” Alfred’s voice was slightly strained with that.

“Yes… you are,” Arthur ran his fingers over his hair, looking at Alfred in thought. “At least we have that advantage, I suppose.”

Arthur glanced about the area of the shed, taking notice of the little changes that the Butcher had made since his past few failed attempts at keeping his victims. The door was triple padlocked now, and nothing was within reach of the desk now bolted to the floor.

“It’s gotten more difficult with each new bloke. The Butcher changes the environment every time. The same thing won’t work twice. I’ve had to get extraordinarily creative with every attempt… This is no exception. However… if we wait until he comes back, I’ll take a look at what I can take from him. The padlocked door is also a problem. He’s boarded up the only window…” Again, as Arthur glanced up at that window, that ghost of a memory of painful scrapes, skin coming away with the desperation and fear. He shivered.

“So, we wait…” Alfred didn’t sound like he appreciated the idea of waiting. Arthur didn’t either, not in this situation.

Arthur slid down alongside the wall, sitting on the floor next to the desk that contained Alfred. Normally, at this time of day, he’d be vandalizing the Butcher’s property, but he didn’t want to leave Alfred. Similar to how he wouldn’t leave the victims whenever there was a new one.

“Hey, Art,” Alfred spoke again, although Arthur heard him swallow thickly, probably putting on a brave face. “Think I’m hot?” He sounded like he was trying to be smug, covering the underlying fear that tainted his voice. Conversation was better than waiting for hours in terrified silence.

Arthur frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what you’re concerned about while confined in the shed of a sodding murderer?”

“Hey now,” there was amusement in Alfred’s voice as well, although Arthur could detect faint shaking behind some of his words, an attempt to distract himself. “You don’t remember me, so I have to woo you all over again. Do you have any idea how difficult it was the first time around? Now, I have to do it _twice_.”

Arthur snorted. “Am I supposed to believe that you actually wooed me? I don’t seem like your type.”

Alfred laughed, a clear and genuine sound in this place of torture and terrifying last moments. “That’s what you said the first time as well.”

“And what did you say back to me?” Arthur inquired, shifting where he was so that he could catch a glimpse of Alfred’s expression.

“I said that I’m everyone’s type, of course,” Alfred smiled at that, but his voice broke. Grief sharply lined his features, a certain shine in his eyes that threatened the building of tears that refused to fall.

Arthur swallowed tightly and he turned his eyes away. “Well… you’re certainly charming. I’ll give you that. I’m sure you had the entire school in love with you.”

“Hah,” Alfred rolled his eyes slightly, but that hint of a smile returned. “I only cared about what you thought, Arthur. As it turns out, I had some really shitty friends.”

The tenderness in Alfred’s voice was unexpected and the painful tightening returned in Arthur’s chest. He folded his knees close to this chest from where he was sitting, listening intently when Alfred started speaking once more.

“I don’t know if I’m really talking to you, Arthur… or if I’m just going crazy. Maybe it’s just my wishful thinking, I don’t know... Sometimes I would talk to you whenever I’d drive around late at night… So many nights, Arthur…. hoping to find you wandering around or hiding somewhere in one of the obscure neighborhoods of this shithole town. Do you have any idea how fucking out of my mind I’ve been ever since your face was featured on the morning news? I was really crazy about you when we first met… and I was still really crazy about you when you disappeared. My old man thought I was going insane. And maybe I was. This is the first time you’ve talked back to me. Maybe I just really, desperately wanted to hear you again before this creep does me in.”

Arthur stood again, giving Alfred a long glance once more, reaching over to wipe at the tear tracks once more. “You need to stop crying, you twit,” he murmured, almost affectionately. “I’m sorry that I can’t remember you… I wish I could.”

The corners of Alfred’s mouth moved into an almost smile when he felt the cold touch against his cheeks. “Maybe it’s for the best that you can’t remember. It’s my fault, Arthur… I’m really sorry.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for? You’re not the one killing people,” Arthur muttered.

“Arthur, you don’t get it. It’s my fault you’re here—” Alfred seemed to have trouble finishing his thought, not wanting to dwell on whatever it was that he was struggling to admit. Arthur only made a sound of frustration.

“I’d rather not argue with you over your severely misplaced guilt,” Arthur attempted to dismiss Alfred’s words promptly. “Let’s focus on at least some semblance of a plan for when the Butcher comes in here tonight. I’ll go over some scenarios with you, with what I’ve seen him do in the past, and we’ll work together on what to do in these situations.”

Alfred paused before nodding slightly, a certain stubborn tightness over his jaw. “Alright, let’s talk strategy.”

Arthur smirked in approval with the change in his attitude. “Good. Now, another advantage that we have is that you’re a footballer. You’re strong, and I’m guessing that you’re quick enough as well. Lord knows why he chose to abduct you in the first place… You’re not exactly his type, love.” Arthur couldn’t help the goading remark, going back on Alfred’s teasing insistence to the contrary.

“I take serious offense to that,” Alfred quipped back. “But yeah, I hear you. Strength, speed, and shockingly good looks: check. How long do we have?”

“A week at the absolute most,” Arthur said, a heaviness to his voice. “I’d wager even less with you. You’re a bigger risk to him. And he hasn’t killed in a while.”

“Less than a week, then…” Alfred reflected Arthur’s tone, losing the false bravado from earlier.

“Less than a week.”

.

.

.


	5. Promise

_-Two months prior-_

_._

_._

_._

In the few weeks that followed their little meeting in the principal’s office, Arthur noticed that Alfred started to actively seek him out, whether it was catching up to him in the school corridors, dropping by his locker with an obnoxious comment, or stopping to sit next to him during lunch. Either for the entire lunch period or for a portion of it before his athlete friends would drag Alfred back to their table by smacking him or shouting at him.

Arthur grew progressively less sour with Alfred and had even looked forward to their chats, which largely consisted of Alfred teasing him or otherwise attempted to provoke a reaction.

He also got used to hearing Alfred calling him by that ridiculous nickname.

Alfred's visits were particularly concentrated around the one class they shared. Drawing was Arthur’s last course for the day, but he started to make a habit of waiting outside the classroom before the final bell alerted students to empty the corridors. Arthur was toying with his mobile, checking messages before a now familiar figure would typically stop in front of him, the shoulder of Alfred’s letterman jacket filled with all of his achievements coloring his peripheral line of sight, the glint of his glasses prominent as he leaned forward with that familiar cocky grin.

“Hey, Pidge,” Alfred greeted him in that pretentious and enduring way.

“You do know my actual name by now, I hope,” Arthur eyed him back, a hint of amusement. Alfred seemed to only be further encouraged, as he typically was.

“Well, _yeah_,” as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It was the first thing I found out after meeting you. Since you knew mine, I thought it was fair for me to find out yours. I kind of like Pidge, though.”

Arthur snorted, putting away his mobile and leaning against the wall, giving Alfred his full attention. “You bloody well could’ve asked me instead of the entire school.”

“You wouldn’t tell me the first time!” Alfred accused, although a laugh flitted about his words. “Besides, it was funny seeing your reaction to Pidge. Now it’s kind of addicting.”

Arthur lightly slapped Alfred’s arm with his art history textbook. “You’re an arse,” he muttered, but a smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

“Only because it’s hilarious,” Alfred barely moved when the book made contact with his shoulder.

The warning bell rang, and Alfred reached over to slide his fingers around the strap of Arthur’s bookbag, toting him along into the classroom across the corridor. Rather used to Alfred’s antics, Arthur allowed it before pulling away to take his seat toward the back, the workspaces consisting of long tables that would sit two to three students. Alfred plopped down next to him.

The art teacher shut the door after the last students trickled in, and he shot Alfred a warning glance. One that reminded him not to be making trouble now that he allowed him to sit in the back. He’d already been reprimanded for being a disruption more than once.

Alfred gave the teacher an innocent, winning smile back.

The teacher seemed unmoved as he turned to the board to write the agenda.

Arthur snorted quietly. “It looks like not everyone’s susceptible to your charm,” he whispered as he opened his textbook to the last chapter being reviewed.

“Luckily—” Alfred was quick with a smirk. “—You’re not one of them.”

Arthur felt his face warm over. “I’d say you’ve had more than enough trouble with me.”

Alfred chuckled. “And it was totally worth it.”

Arthur lightly pushed at Alfred’s shoulder and the teacher shot them their first warning of the class period.

By the time art class was over, Alfred followed him for a bit down the corridor, making fun of some of the art theories as well as the assignment they’d been given to draw a portrait using the grid technique the teacher had given them.

By the time they made it out to the front of the school where some students filtered into buses, some into cars, and some unlocking their bikes, Arthur started texting his mother, asking her if she was working late tonight. Some of her shifts at the hospital varied and she was called in frequently, which meant that he would be taking the long walk home.

The cold September air was starting to bite as it neared October, leaves finding their gold and reds, and the ones that had already made it to the ground were scuttling about, like critters playfully chasing before being scattered. It had gotten to the point where everyone was pulling out their jumpers, coats, and scarves. Arthur loved his knitted scarves and jumpers, some of which Alfred liked to make fun of for their bulky, homemade quality.

Arthur didn’t receive a response from his mum on his mobile, so he assumed she was busy. He sighed, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head, preparing for the long walk.

Alfred called out to him from the nearby bike rack. “Hey! Want a ride?”

“On what?” Arthur raised a brow.

“On my awesome bike, of course!” Alfred successfully freed it after having some trouble with his lock, straddling the seat, and pushing forward until he was alongside Arthur.

“Don’t you have a car?”

“Yeah… but it got taken away for a week. So, this is sort of my punishment. Not that riding a bike isn’t cool, too,” he confirmed with a grin.

“What—did you break a traffic law?”

“Sort of. I got a speeding ticket.”

Arthur laughed, peering at Alfred from the side of his hood. “Can I trust you not to reach criminal speeds on your bike, then?”

“Scout’s honor,” Alfred shifted and briefly pat the handlebars, a silent invitation for him to hop on.

Arthur’s nose wrinkled slightly, skeptical, but he handed Alfred his book bag to swing over his shoulder in addition to the backpack he wore. He trusted that the footballer was strong enough to be able to handle both at once.

He ignored the attention from passing students as he carefully got up on Alfred’s handlebars, pressing the bottom of his trainers against the metal over the front wheel. His hands gripped at the handles, and he felt the press of Alfred’s warm fingers grip right next to his before he took off, the wind immediately tugging off Arthur’s hood, revealing the beginning of a rare smile.

The cold breeze pulled at their hair and clothes, but even so, Arthur felt warmth spreading through his body. Adrenaline trickled through his veins as he felt Alfred’s fingers readjust on the bars, sliding hand half over his, holding his in place against the handles.

Alfred was chatty, talking about football and school, and he could feel his hot breath against the back of his neck.

Arthur would interrupt Alfred whenever they needed to make a turn, directing him to the modest home he shared with his mum. Even though it was small and clearly in a working-class neighborhood, it was well taken care of with a clean front garden and trimmed flowerbed, most of it wilted with the oncoming season change.

“There it is—the blue one,” Arthur nodded at it instead of pointing and Alfred immediately started to slow.

“It looks nice,” Alfred offered a hand to steady Arthur has he slid from the bars. He carefully worked Arthur’s heavy bag from his shoulder, handing that over as well.

“Thanks… It’s really my mum’s doing. She likes to garden in her spare time. Thanks for the ride.” Arthur stood on the walkway for a moment, biting at the inside of his cheek as he fiddled with the strap of his bookbag. Alfred also seemed to be waiting for something, his heels rolling forward and back, the bike slowly pacing with his movements. Blue eyes remained expectantly on Arthur he kept reworking his grip over the bike handles.

“Uh, um… my mum, she’s working late tonight…” Arthur finally muttered, a small pause following as he scraped the toe of his shoe against the gravel.

“Oh yeah?” Alfred, for once, seemed a bit clumsy with his speech. A rarity for his usual show of grand confidence. He scratched at the back of his neck before adding, “I’m not really expected back anytime soon.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth lifted. “Do you want to come inside?”

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” Alfred couldn’t say that quickly enough. And Arthur saw him blush for the first time since they’d started hanging out nearly a month ago.

“If your mom won’t mind,” he added.

“No… I don’t think so. I never have friends over, so she might’ve encouraged you to stay, honestly,” Arthur gave him a weak smile, rubbing a little at his own flushed cheek as he turned around to find the key under one of his mother’s flowerpots to work at the lock.

Arthur peeled off his shoes at the door, which prompted Alfred to do the same. Arthur turned on a couple of lights, revealing an outdated, early 90’s inspired living space, from the ruffled gingham sofa to the explosion of knickknacks on every shelf. His mother didn’t have any plans or the funds to renovate anytime soon.

“It’s… kind of small,” Arthur typically would’ve told someone to piss off if they insulted his home, but a small part of him wanted to impress his guest. In this case, he had little to work with. He shrugged out of his jacket.

“It’s cozy. I like it,” Alfred immediately made his way into the living room, noticing the grandfather clock right away. It was a funny mixture of antique and being stuck only a few decades in the past.

“Can I see your room? I’m sure you’re hiding all sorts of weird shit there,” Alfred winked.

“Absolutely not,” Arthur’s voice was flat. “Only the extremely privileged are allowed in there.”

He made his way into the kitchen as he spoke, looking in the fridge for leftovers he could warm up. He ended up taking a bowl of pasta his mother had made the night before. The television was turned on, and he assumed Alfred was channel surfing.

“So, when do I score the ‘extremely privileged’ level?” Alfred called out from the living room.

“I haven’t decided yet what that will look like,” Arthur placed the bowl in the microwave, setting a time as he frequently glanced over at the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room, as if he could somehow peek at Alfred on the other side if he stared long enough.

It was enormously weird that a popular footballer from his school was sitting in his living room, wanting to hang out with him after giving him an impromptu ride on his bike. He’d always imagined that blokes like Alfred preferred to be with their other athletic friends, playing football for fun, or planning for another one of their silly drinking parties.

Arthur grabbed two forks after stirring the pasta around as he made his way into the living room, noticing that Alfred had settled on one of the Marvel films already playing on the television. That didn’t surprise Arthur one bit. He wasn’t going to protest. His eyes drifted over how Alfred was sitting on the floor with his back to the sofa, the seat which his backpack occupied instead. Arthur made his way over, sliding next to Alfred on the floor and placing the bowl of pasta on the coffee table with the two forks stabbed into it.

“What? You cooked dinner for me? You shouldn’t have,” Alfred grinned as he reached for one of the forks, already taking a mouthful of pasta.

“Hardly,” Arthur twirled some of the pasta around his. He took a bite as he took a moment to look over Alfred, his thoughts churning—a mixture of curiosity, flattery, and bewilderment.

“May I ask you a serious question?” Arthur muttered after swallowing.

Alfred reached over for the remote to turn down the volume on the television before fully looking at Arthur.

Heat prickled at his face with having Alfred’s entire focus, which he wasn’t expecting, but persisted regardless.

“This may sound a bit stupid, but… why are you hanging out with me? You didn’t know that I existed three weeks ago, and now you’re hanging about constantly and avoiding your footballer friends. Don’t get the wrong idea… I don’t mind hanging out. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

This time, Alfred reflected some of the redness that Arthur could still feel over his own face. He leaned back slightly on the sofa, his arm resting on the edge of it behind Arthur, which was casual, but it had an oddly intimate feel.

“You stood up for me,” Alfred spoke without any hint of his usual humor and charm, typically aimed at annoying or embarrassing Arthur throughout the school day.

“You had real guts doing that. And against one of the largest guys on the team! He could’ve seriously hurt you or harassed you for days after. But… it was like you didn’t care. And you still don’t seem like you care. You just… live your life however you want. You don’t give a shit what other people think. And, well… I think that’s cool. Not a lot of people are like that. Especially not in school where everyone worries about what everyone thinks. They blend in, they become the same, and they only care about being liked… even if it means standing by and doing nothing if their friend is being bullied or kicked around. Hell, I didn’t notice anyone else, my friends included, doing anything while I was getting jumped.”

Alfred’s eyes were warm, and Arthur couldn’t help the way that his pulse felt like it was steadily creeping up into his face, his own eyes held effectively captive.

Alfred continued, a hint of a smile now. “I’m not like you. I care about what people think, I care about being popular, and I like it when people think I’m cool… or tell me I’m good at something. Or hell, any compliment, I’ll take it. Maybe that’s why I like you. You have something that I don’t. And I admire that.”

His fingers rested on the sofa behind Arthur’s head reached to tease at the ends of Arthur’s hair along the back of his neck. “None of my friends did anything that day when you stood up for me because… something kind of happened the day before. They still don’t talk about it.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth rose a little with the memory of what the receiver had said to Alfred that day.

“Did it have something to do with your cock? I distinctly remember him mentioning your cock,” he responded unashamedly, amused with the way that Alfred’s face immediately flushed darkly at that.

“Well… we got really drunk the night before. We were all just hanging out. And I ended up messing around with one of the other guys on the team… I guess someone else saw. So, I was confronted the next day. You know the rest,” Alfred sighed before taking another big bite of pasta, sauce leaking down the corner of his mouth, which he wiped away with his knuckles.

“Mm, so that’s why you were hitting on me in Germania’s office,” Arthur snorted. “What—you just discovered your sexuality the night before and you felt liberated to do whatever the hell you want? I remember that little speech you gave about ‘expectations.’”

“Hah, yeah. I guess that’s what it was. It must’ve sounded dumb to you.” Sheepish laughter from before leaked back into Alfred’s voice.

“So why were you hitting on me, huh? What gave you the impression that I was into blokes?” Arthur was half teasing, because he knew about the rumors that had been spreading about the school, with Arthur neither confirming nor denying anything.

Alfred grinned at Arthur, leaning slightly forward from where he was sitting, his fingers strayed from the ends of Arthur’s hair to touch lightly alongside his jaw. “Well, are you?”

“Evasive, are we? Answering a question with a question.” Arthur mock chided him, ignoring the fact that he could feel the heat intensifying in his own face with the slide of Alfred’s fingers. He leaned in a tad closer as well, his palms sweaty against the carpet, resting between them.

“Who’s being evasive?” Alfred questioned with a triumphant smile.

He leaned in once more, the tip of his nose lightly touching Arthur’s. He could feel the other’s warm breath against his lips and his fingers curled against the carpet, feeling his pulse intensify in his ears once more.

“May I?” Alfred asked one more question, not quite finished with their banter. Arthur didn’t even respond, his heart beating strongly, and closing his eyes with a small nod.

Alfred must've felt the shake of his head with their proximity, as Arthur felt the heat of his mouth press against his a slow breath later, his body flooding with warmth.

There was always something exhilarating about kissing another bloke. It could be harsh and ungraceful. Somehow earthier, muskier than it was with a girl. Alfred’s lips were chapped, but they were warm, caressing and capturing his mouth with a familiar confidence. Alfred’s fingers roughly tangled in the hair at the back of Arthur’s head.

There was a sharp intake of air through Alfred’s nostrils as he slid his tongue along Arthur’s lip. Arthur parted them, allowing Alfred inside, lightheadedness making his own thoughts grow hazy. His fingers pulled at Alfred’s jacket, dragging him closer. He felt the pressure of Alfred pushing him back until he was lying on the carpet alongside the sofa. He sucked in a hasty breath; his heart pounding even harder as Alfred’s kisses shifted from his lips to the side of his jaw. Shivers trickled down his spine as Arthur moved his head to the side, staring at the edge of his mother’s ruffled sofa as he felt Alfred’s tongue run along the skin right below his ear before sucking softly at the skin. A steady exhale breezed through Arthur’s lips, his skin hot and raw wherever he felt the press of Alfred’s lips.

Alfred slowed as he nuzzled a little at the curve of Arthur’s neck. A smile was slowly emerging, and he turned to look up right as Alfred shifted back. His eyes were somehow bluer, more intense, as they fixed on him. Arthur’s heart felt like it was in his throat as he impulsively leaned up to steal another kiss, this one slower and with a certain finality before he broke away.

Alfred’s breath was heavy, as if he’d done a lap around the school’s field, his glasses slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose. He shifted carefully to allow Arthur to sit up.

“Hey, I…” Alfred started, but swallowed thickly.

Arthur watched him for a moment, reaching up to fix the alignment of his glasses with a somewhat vulpine smirk. “You what?”

“I don’t want to mess this up… I still want to be friends no matter what. But, I also… really, really like you…” he seemed to be struggling with his words. Arthur made an amused sound, finding it kind of adorable.

“I remember you saying something to the effect of ‘fuck labels’ right?” Arthur’s eyes were bright with mischief. “Well, then perhaps we don’t need one either. We can be friends… that like to kiss… and do stuff.” Of course, Arthur realized just then that that was typically a certain label as well. And Alfred seemed to realized soon after, as he immediately chimed in.

“Yeah… but, I mean… I’ll get super jealous if you go around kissing your other friends, too. You don’t do that, do you?”

Arthur huffed, indignant. “What? No, of course not! You’re only the second person I’ve kissed, I’ll have you know.”

“Who’s the first?” Alfred raised a brow. “Nevermind… I don’t want to know.” His brow wrinkled slightly as he seemed to be thinking of a better idea.

Arthur’s expression softened as he thought about how Alfred was with his footballer friends, how he had so many eyes and expectations laid on him, watching for him to succeed in everything he did. Like Alfred had just admitted to, he cared about being popular, cared about meeting his goals with the best chances possible.

“Listen… we can be a thing, but we don’t have to tell anyone if you want it to be a secret,” Arthur spoke carefully, pausing every so often to think over how to word this.

“You’re okay with that?” Alfred’s face reddened a little, perhaps out of shame with the way that his eyes dropped.

“For now… I’m going to say yes,” Arthur muttered, casually taking one of the forks out of the pasta bowl to twirl some more spaghetti. “We’ll just… see how it goes, yeah?”

A brilliant, almost relieved smile overtook Alfred’s features, as if Arthur had lifted weights off his shoulders. “Yeah… Yeah! That sounds awesome. And I’ll make it up to you. Maybe I can come over to your house after school most nights when I don’t have football practice. Hang out with you. I can tell my parents that I got a tutor or something.”

“Oi, don’t you have to keep up your marks if you want to continue playing football? Maybe I _should_ tutor you,” Arthur snorted when he saw Alfred’s face immediately sour at the mention of having their hang out sessions turning into studying sessions.

“C’mon, Arthur, don’t be boring,” there was a hint of a pout forming.

Arthur wasn’t relenting, wearing a wicked grin as he leaned forward, caressing the side of Alfred’s cheek with the back of his fingers, immediately making them turn red. His lips teasingly slid close to the other’s. “If you want to make out with me after school, then you’ll have to keep up with a convincing lie. And your parents aren’t going to believe that you’re being tutored if you’re getting shitty marks.”

Alfred, as impulsive as he was, closed the small gap between their lips. Arthur only laughed after Alfred’s messy, quick kiss broke. The footballer’s cheeks only further reddened.

“Okay, fine. But only a little bit of studying,” he relented.

The sound of keys turning the lock of the front door with the immediate push of the door opening caused Arthur to flinch back from Alfred so quickly that he toppled over, nearly sending the bowl of pasta onto the carpet.

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck…” Arthur whispered, green eyes singed with alarm as he tried to straighten out his clothes, creating distance away from Alfred.

“Hello, darling,” a woman’s tired, but pleasant voice called from the foyer as she made her way inside with some difficulty. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to pick you up at school today. We had a surge of emergencies during my last hour, so I took a bit of overtime.”

“It’s okay, mum,” Arthur stood up, looking somewhat sheepish and entirely guilty.

A middle-aged woman with dirty blonde hair tied back glanced into the main living area and her tired expression immediately changed into a friendly smile when she saw Alfred.

“Oh, you have a friend over? That’s fantastic!” Spoken as if it were the best surprise she could’ve come home to, which made Arthur turn bright red. Alfred cleared his throat somewhat as he got up carefully from where he was sitting.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kirkland,” he greeted her with his usual charming smile that he used with teachers. Arthur wanted to tell him that he was laying it on a little thick, but his mother seemed entirely taken by him.

“Oh, aren’t you lovely,” she beamed as she moved forward and only when she was entirely in view did they realize that she was coming in with several bags of heavy groceries.

“Oh, here, I can help carry things!” Alfred offered, making his way to Mrs. Kirkland to hold out his hands for one of her bags, which she was able to hand over gingerly to him. Arthur made his way over, as she directed him to the boot of their car where there were more bags.

Arthur rushed out into the cool air, hoping it would lighten his flush, and was gathering bags in the the car where Alfred joined him shortly. With the two of them, they were able to gather the rest of the purchases quickly before locking up the car.

“Thanks… for helping out,” Arthur muttered to him as they made their way back to the front, the slow heat rekindling in his face.

“No problem! It’s kinda nice to meet your mom. You look a lot like her,” the soft corners of his mouth rose before Alfred quickly pecked at Arthur’s cheek before they made their way back into the house. The warmth turned into a bright heat within Arthur’s face by the time they made it back inside.

Setting the bags on the table with the others, Arthur’s mother pushed back the fallaway strands of hair as she surveyed them both. She reached over to playfully brush back Arthur’s hair as well. “And who’s your charming friend?”

“Oh sorry,” Arthur averted his eyes with her touch. “Mum, this is Alfred… a friend from school… we have some classes together,” he failed to mention that they also had detention together when they first met, one of the many consequences from the initial fight.

“Oh?” Mrs. Kirkland smiled with that as she reached to shake Alfred’s hand. “I take it that you’re keeping him out of trouble, then?”

Alfred laughed with Arthur’s flustered reaction as he warmly shook Mrs. Kirkland’s hand back. “More like, he’s keeping me out of trouble, ma’am. Arthur actually agreed to be my tutor for the rest of the semester.”

Mrs. Kirkland gave Arthur an odd look with that information before she turned to put on a fresh kettle for tea. “Really now? Arthur’s marks aren’t the best.” She reached for her tea tin, her back briefly turned. “Can you really take on tutoring a friend, darling?”

Arthur avoided looking directly at Alfred who gave him a lingering, surprised look. Fingers distractedly scratched at the side of his head, averting his eyes. “Uh, yeah, I think it’ll motivate me to turn my work in on time.”

After the kettle had been set on the cooker, Mrs. Kirkland turned to pull Arthur into an embrace before he could sidestep away from it, ruffling the top of his head affectionately while Arthur was positively burning from embarrassment.

“Mum!”

She turned her smiling gaze on Alfred before she gave Arthur one last playful squeeze and released him from her hold. “Do me a favor, Alfred, and keep him out of trouble as well. I want him to graduate.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alfred laughed. “I promise that Arthur will graduate. Right there with me.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she winked at him. “Will you like to stay for dinner?”

“Actually… I should be getting home. My folks will be wondering where I am since I didn’t really give them any notice today. But thanks for the invite. It was nice meeting you, ma’am.”

“I’ll show you out,” Arthur muttered, pressing his hands into his pockets and playfully bumping Alfred’s shoulder as he led the way out of the kitchen while Mrs. Kirkland reminded Alfred that he was welcome back any time.

On the front porch after he closed the door, he turned his attention fully on Alfred.

“Tomorrow, then? I’ll come over,” Alfred offered.

“I suppose.”

“Hey, I have to keep my promise that you’ll graduate now,” he winked. “Can’t believe you’re actually the one with shitty grades. And here you were going to lecture me on mine!”

“Alright, fine, that’s well deserved,” Arthur scowled. “But no more teasing me about my marks.”

The footballer only offered a smug grin in return.

“Remember what I said about how tempting something becomes when you tell me not to do it?” Alfred leaned in closer, breath warming his lips, rough fingers picking at Arthur’s jumper before pulling him close. Alfred’s lips captured his with only a moment's notice, lingering before pulling back slowly. Arthur was left staring back, his mouth warm and prickling pleasantly.

“See you around, Pidge.”

.

.

.


End file.
